Colourful Man In The Sky

Sometimes in the sunshine my beard sparkles an orange hue. This beauteous anomaly is typically noticed with: "YOUR BEARD IS ORANGE? WHY?" After a pregnant pause, I reply: "Because tangerines are delectable".
Chinua Achebe's narrative has failed to intrigue me, and his writing style is very mundane. I've pounded through two thirds of Things Fall Apart, and I'm like: "Ugh. Just give me Heart of Darkness; it may bigoted and and overtly Western chauvinist-like, but Joseph Conrad was a master of his literary craft and layered enough esotericism and symbolism to satisfy any reader hungry for substance." How Things Fall Apart has become the magnum opus of Africa is a sham; I regard it as a minor work, much like Dickens' A Tale of Two Cites. "What is about high school? You read all the worst books by good writers." -- The Squid And The Whale
The fact that Roland Emmerich is spewing out expensive crap on film and has not even received death threats demonstrates the indolent repose that our society has settled into.
Jacy's Tempest has hit Basia Bulat and she's withdrawn from playing Hamilton. Misfortune is leaning on me but it can't afford the ticket. Bowie actually duets on the Kashmir's track "The Cynic", eh?
We appear to have a stranglehold on a humble abode for next year. I will inhabit this home for the summer, and will take Hamilton's sultry season by storm. I've never actually wandered through Hamilton before (perhaps for good reason) but, surely, between all the industry and poverty, there is a poppin' Beat scene with poetry jams and... Frig. I need to engage in other pleasant fiction; I've been digging this Beat nonsense long enough.
I'll suppose I could emulate Okonkwo and thus excel in wrestling in my youth; become a war hero in my 20's; and become harder than most rocks as an old timer. Oh wait, that's John McCain.